


And It's Contagious

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: About fic, M/M, Not!Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He realises he's incepted himself into his own ship the second time they're on the beach alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And It's Contagious

**Author's Note:**

> This is not!fic about actors reading and writing fic. I would pretend to be ashamed, if I was in any way, shape or form. Title from Regina Spektor's "Us". I usually Americanise my spelling, but because this is not!fic, I didn't, sorry if that's annoying in any way.

So. Dylan's written fanfic since he was about 12 and completely incapable of spelling a damn word. Clunky, ridiculous self-insert fic of which the only redemption was an original idea or two and occasional insightful comment. It started with _Harry Potter_ and went on to _Game of Thrones_. Yeah, he's a rebel. And almost no one ever believed he was really a guy, even that one time he webcammed, but to be fair he shouldn't've tried that trick immediately after shooting 'Wannabe'. He's never particularly cared about that. He likes girls. He has totally never minded being able to be part of their secret world. Sometimes at school he was convinced he was the only dude who got that girls really aren't that different. Like, most boys his age had no clue about a woman's filthy, filthy mind. He has learned so much from fandom. 

The point is; the world of fanfic actually isn't new to him in any way, shape, or form, so when Davis warns him about it, he laughs, big and wide and says it doesn't bother him. And it doesn't. Quite the opposite. Some of the fics in _Teen Wolf_ fandom leave him breathless, with that 'God, might as well run all the way home and snap my pencils in two. I will never be that good. _Davis_ will never be that good' surge of ALL THE ADMIRATION IN THE WORLD. And some of them are filthy, filthy porn. And some of them are both. He loves the varied different Stileses and Dereks and occasional other characters who sometimes get a look-in. 

But he is kind of surprised by the RPF. It's like --- he knows that even actors sometimes have trouble separating themselves from their characters, there's always bleedthrough and actorleak and the method. But yeah. It's not shock so much as he doesn't think he's all that interesting to write about. He's a moderately attractive rookie actor whose middle school best friend insisted on calling Wilbur after they read _Charlotte's Web_ in class. He is awkward and flaily in group interviews, constantly laughing at himself. He tends to spend his life working rather than doing anything overly adventurous. And oh, right, he gets it. He is, in so, so many ways, one of them. Of course fans want to write fic where he makes it with one of the hottest co-stars ever. This is id!fic 101. Dylan wouldn't call himself a Mary Sue (of the entire cast of _Teen Wolf_ , he's the only one with the remotely normal non-Mary-Sueish name, after all), doesn't think people write him as such, but there's a level of identification there, it's obvious.

And Hoechlin is hot. That's true. Dylan has eyes, he can't lie about that. But Hoechlin is also just always... accessible. Total dork material. Who'll dress up for Halloween with no complaints, wax lyrically about baseball for _days_ and is also majorly into GoT. He'll listen to Dylan's plans for world domination; AKA: becoming a triple threat of writer, director, actor, and talk about his own short stories he'll never let the world see, especially after Tanner did once and mocked him for literal years. He is just so Goddamned welcoming and friendly and human. Hoechlin doesn't shake his head and disagree when they're sitting against one another at the beach, alone from the rest of the cast, who are singing and dancing and basically making a gigantic brouhaha, as Dylan says he's always afraid of opening up too much because he's really not that nice a person, that he's polite and enthusiastic because it's _easier_ , but he can be a Judgey McJudgerson who is Judging You. Hoechlin simply nods and says he gets that. 

"You're the kindest person in the entire world," Dylan returns, because Hoechlin is. He's very giving of his time and devotion. Sickeningly so. 

"All lies," Hoechlin says. "On the inside right this moment I'm thinking you're a whiny asshole. I'm just too much of a gentleman to admit it."

So he's --- you know, he's a friend. The RPF surprises him. It feels a little too close for comfort, all these little touches of truth that have him asking 'what if?'s and 'maybe I could?'s. It makes him want to play up the joke even more when they're together in public just to point out that it's never, ever going to happen. Self-deprecation --- making the joke about what a loser he is before anyone else can. He maybe still has some issues with his self-esteem. In some ways, he thinks he's ten times better than most everyone else, but he still cares what they think and he still hates himself more. It's stupidity, is what it is. 

He doesn't stop reading the RPF, though. Because he's a glutton for punishment. And as long as he can remember he's been writing these stories for himself in his mind anyway. Dylan has whole universes he's constructed. He's currently living in Universe 42; the one where he makes it as an actor. It seems pretty natural to want to see the stories others write for him. And they're all really sweet, and sometimes he's more or less Stiles, and other times he's more or less the him he allows himself to be in interviews, and more or less he finds himself wishing that aspects of them were true and not fabrication. 

He realises he's incepted himself into his own ship the second time they're on the beach alone. They've gone so that Hoechlin can surf, Dylan can take a thousand pictures, but the weather report was overblown and there aren't really the waves for it, so they settle in the sand and chat. Hoechlin's grinning at him, the waning sunlight is cresting over his hair like a halo, and Dylan's heart lodges in his throat. He takes a sip of ginger ale to wash it down and begins to choke, spluttering like a fool. He shivers as Hoechlin's hand rubs down the nubs of his spine in a comforting sweep. 

"You okay, Dyl?" Hoechlin asks when he's finally managed to get to some kind of normal, light-voiced and teasing. 

"Yeah, I'm all right," Dylan says eventually, scrubbing a hand over his face and staring into the sea. His skin feels too tight and his heart's now thumping traitorously, but at least he's alive. There was a distinct possibility he could have died thanks to fanfic, and that would cap off his completely ridiculous life. 

Except it's probably not just fanfic. Dylan would have fallen for Hoechlin without any kind of suggestion. He feels it in his waters. Whatever that actually means. 

Hoechlin scrunches up his nose in a mockery of Posey. "I always get hungry when we call you that. Dyl."

"If you start to call me Pickle, I will end you," Dylan returns, because, seriously. SERIOUSLY, DUDE. DEATH. He's pretty sure he could kill Hoechlin with his mind if he tried hard enough, even though he knows he'd instantly regret it, because that'd mean never seeing his face again, and ugh. He needs Hoechlin's unfortunate fucking face in his life. "And your name is one step away from heckler. Like you have a right to judge."

Hoechlin spreads his hands out wide, almost too wide. He's way expressive in real life. Dylan sometimes wants to suggest he should bring some of that to his scenes, when the occasion calls for it, so he's less Pinocchio or Keanu Reeves, but doesn't want to make it seem like he knows better. Especially in regards to something he's been doing for ten minutes, as opposed to someone who's been doing it since he was a kid. And anyway, in their scenes together, Hoechlin automatically is more expressive, like he's reacting to the volume of Stiles. If Dylan ever gets to direct an episode, then maybe he can let his wayward tongue have its way, but before then, no, he's going to enjoy Hoechlin's range of movement and facial flexibility and not think about it. 

"Not being Judgey McJudgerson. Just suggesting we should get something to eat," Hoechlin clarifies, tapping Dylan on the upper part of his arm.

Just the fact that Hoechlin would use Dylan's own appropriation of a Whedonism weeks after the fact does something warm to the cockles of his heart. He's mentally \o/ and flipping tables. It's awesome. The best. He grins so hard his cheeks ache.

The closest place is a McDonalds, so that's what they eat; fries and burgers, and Hoechlin takes the pickle out of his, holds it up for Dylan's delectation, and then slurps it into his mouth, all full of suggestion, because it turns out he really can be as douchey as the rest of mankind. His eyes crinkle at the corners as Dylan over-does his indignation. Dylan actually is feeling indignant, but, hey, truthing with a lie and all that. 

As they walk back to the car, their arms brush, and that sensation combined with the smell of salt and seaweed in the air just makes Dylan want to melt, so he slouches more than usual and doesn't jump when Hoechlin wraps an arm around his shoulders. It's natural and freeing and right, perfect, he doesn't need anything more than this at this moment in time. 

When they part, he stops himself from looking back. 'Cause he has a feeling he could never look forward again.

He stops reading fic, after this, after his epiphany. And though he sometimes wonders what's going on in the world of both _Teen Wolf_ and _Teen Wolf RPF_ fic (has Scott/Isaac exploded? Do people write Crystal/Daniel? How about Him/Daniel? He's seen that gifset on tumblr), he tries not to dwell on it. If it was too close before, now it's under his skin, barely showing on the surface, something he wants to scratch and tear at. He just can't, cannot torture himself that way anymore. After all, he's got work to be getting on with --- lines to learn, pratfalls to practice. He doesn't have the time to waste. 

But writing has always been his therapy. Those self-insert _Harry Potter_ fics were his way of finding a place in the world, when he was too shy and guarded to make friends and everyone took his silence for the criticism it actually did grow to be. And he needs to practice his dialogue writing, because even though it's always been his strength as an actor; to speak the lines given him with conviction or humour or sorrow, he's not that great at writing those lines. His dialogue always comes across as too stilted, too _written_ , they're indie-flavoured conversations at cross-purposes crow-barred into every genre and it doesn't work. The obvious solution is to write down real conversations, so he does. It's what he did in his youtube days, it's what he does now. The meta, it burns! 

He finds himself one day writing about that trip to the beach, all those weeks ago. He can't get it out of his head, it only makes sense. He and Hoechlin haven't shared many scenes yet, so they haven't spent as much time being in one another's orbit, and to be frank, Dylan's been avoiding him, because he's worried he's super obvious in his affection and Hoechlin would never feel the same. Just, no. Yeah, self-esteem issues out the wazoo. Dylan writes a piece that's almost entirely dialogue and the accompanying action. Some of the dialogue is what he can remember of their conversation, but he makes stuff up too, stuff he wishes he had the strength to say to Hoechlin, things he's thought about saying then shied away from. 

The posting part? He can't explain that. Maybe it's because he misses being in fandom, misses the discussions and the squee and the drama. Or perhaps his subconscious is desperate to connect, angry with him for his deliberate evasion of company. It's possible he just wants a pick-me-up and he has a feeling that fans will like this fic. It's sweet and he's more or less like Stiles and the him he allows himself to he in interviews, and it ends with a kiss, everyone likes kisses.

He's unprepared for what comes next. He posted just before bed and then willed himself to sleep, because he's got a huge scene in the morning --- shirtless Stiles getting to be part of a fight! He's learned the choreography like it's his wedding dance, and you know what, it kind of is. He's stupidly excited by the whole thing. Actually, that's the likely candidate for why he posted --- he had to let that story go in order to free his mind; concentrate on his actual life. He can't spend all night dicking around on the internet, waiting for the kudoses and comments to roll in. He also wakes up late, has no time to check before going to make-up and prep. It's only after the thoroughly exhausting but seriously excellent day that he has time to check up on his hit-count and the hundreds of kudoses he expects. 

And there's only two. And _twenty-seven_ comments. All calling him out for plagiarism, telling him it's totally uncool to rip off someone else's story, not to mention D U M dumb to do it on the very site that fic is posted, only three weeks after its gold-encrusted reception of 342 kudoses and fifteen comments proclaiming it to be the loveliest, most bittersweet thing they've read in a long time.

It doesn't take him long to find the story, and boy is it lovely. It's mostly narration and description, with references to his honey-coloured eyes and constellation of beauty marks. It's super lyrical, and exactly the kind of thing he may have written were he not trying to improve his dialogue. It's all colours and shades and highlights; has this real sense of being tangible and tactile. A brush of a hand, a stroke of a finger, grains of sand edging between toes and a heart-beat rocketing in contentment. And somehow, in this story, the conversation where Hoechlin almost calls him Pickle is full of longing and pining and desire. It's not two co-stars goofing off. It's a declaration of love. 

There's no kiss at the end, there's a scene that would work as a long, long shot in a tv show or movie; Hoechlin standing watching Dylan's back as he walks away, heart full of regret, because he can't make himself say the words, reach out the way he wants to. Hopes there will be a day when he has that strength.

Dylan feels the emptiest he's felt in a long time, after that. But a kind of empty that he thinks could easily be filled with warmth.

So. Options. His life is a _Supernatural_ episode? There's a Chuck out there somewhere, channelling his existence, _Stranger than Fiction_ , controlling his existence? Or. No. He has a split personality, is a sleep fanficcer. 

Or the other person who was there with him that day also wrote the story and then posted it for fans to gush over. Because that's not weird and creepy at all. 

Except, it isn't. Not to Dylan. Glasshouses and stones and all that. 

It's like something out of a romantic comedy. Dylan can imagine the sparklemotion happy hands, high-pitched noises and chorus of "oh, boys!" when he goes to Hoechlin's trailer and asks if they can talk. Hoechlin is a nervous ball of tension just as he is, email open on his laptop, and Dylan doesn't need to glance at it to know he's gotten emails about his story being appropriated. Knows he'd figure out it was him, because there were true-to-life lines in Dylan's story that weren't in Hoechlin's, that no fangirl or fanboy could have added for their ill-advised rip-off. 

And even though they're both writers, it's obvious neither of them has any idea what to say. Just what words are appropriate in a situation like this? Dylan's mind is an utter blank. So, he doesn't say anything. He steps forward, goes right up into Hoechlin's space, presses his hand against his neck, tilts his head just right and slots them together. He kisses him all the phrases and paragraphs he's had trapped inside since they met. Licks into his warm, wet mouth and shudders at Hoechlin's enthusiastic response. Everyone likes kisses.

"You can call me Pickle," he says, when he pulls away. 

His breath is coming thick and fast and he thinks he might have burst a blood vessel somewhere, which is so not sexy, but that pounding can't be right, can it? Hoechlin's arms are bracketing him, and even though he should feel completely safe, he's falling.

"I don't want to," Hoechlin replies with a laugh. His eyebrows arch up and Dylan is struck by how unbelievably adorable he can be. 

"Too bad. It's our thing now. You must."

That's it, that's how it begins. Dylan goes back to reading _Teen Wolf_ fic, and sometimes they roleplay some filthy, filthy porn, though with Hoechlin as Stiles and him as Derek, because that's more fun, somehow. Dylan's totally going to ask for the episode Davis has promised he can write to be a bodyswap episode. The world needs to see Hoechlin's Stiles. Hoechlin admits he's always more of a writer than a reader, that Davis had opened him up to that world to prepare him for when 'Sterek' becomes canon. But he likes it when Dylan reads him his favourite scenes, because his Scott voice is to die for, and fanfic has clearly served as fantastic inspiration. They co-write a fic that gets nearly 2000 kudoses in three weeks, which is hilarious, because it's simply real life written down; a day on set, this time, engaging in a practical joke war wherein Posey gets annihilated and there's frantic rutting in Dylan's trailer.

And just like in an ultimate happy-making fanfic, they live happily ever after.


End file.
